


Watch Your Mouth

by TeamHPForever



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: First Meetings, First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-09
Updated: 2015-04-09
Packaged: 2018-03-22 00:14:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3708233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeamHPForever/pseuds/TeamHPForever
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“They should have left him on ice,” the man says, not even bothering to keep his voice down. Coulson doesn’t have a single doubt what they’re talking about, not with the news splashed across every front page in the world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Watch Your Mouth

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was inspired by a prompt off of [this list](http://xaviersass.tumblr.com/post/97163747756/puppetamateur-okay-but-consider-these-oh-my): "waiting behind you in line but ‘excuse you me did i just hear you talking shit about my favourite superhero there SON"

Coulson recognizes half the people in the coffee shop as he opens the door and looks around. The shop is only a five-minute walk from HQ, the perfect gathering spot for SHIELD agents. It helps that the place is run by Al Mackenzie, a retired agent himself. It’s discrete, more secure than most, and all the civilians are regulars that don’t look twice at customers wearing suits and various bruises.

Coulson nods at Agent Hill in the corner, nursing her usual large coffee with too many espresso shots.

The line is long but it goes quickly. Coulson takes in the man just ahead of him, all broad shoulders and lithe movements. He has the easy stance and the tucked away weapons of an agent but Coulson can’t remember seeing him before. He’s chatting amiably to the red-haired woman next to him.

“They should have left him on ice,” the man says, not even bothering to keep his voice down. Coulson doesn’t have a single doubt what they’re talking about, not with the news splashed across every front page in the world.

“He could still be an asset.” The woman stands perfectly still, almost overly so, like she’s used to freezing to keep from being noticed. There’s no bulge of a concealed gun on her but she does appear to have several knives.

“Right,” the man scoffs. “That suit is going to be real good undercover. Might as well just wrap him in an American flag.”

Rage bubbles low in Coulson’s gut. He forgets where he is until someone coughs behind him and he realizes he can move forward a couple of paces. He does, with an apologetic smile.

“I don’t he’ll be going undercover,” the woman says.

“Maybe he can do his song-and-dance routine for the press,” the man says thoughtfully. His voice is bitter, matter-of-fact. “Might make them like us.”

Coulson can’t take it anymore. He drops his hand on the bastard’s shoulder and says in a low voice, “Steve Rogers has done more for the world than you could ever hope to.”

He expects the man to deflate but he just turns around and stares back coolly. “All things have their time.”

“Steve never got to _have_ his time.” Coulson takes a step forward, trying to force him to back down even though the guy’s got a couple inches on him.

The woman nudges her companion to order. He turns back around and asks for a coffee “black as night.”

Once they’re done, they step out of the way for Coulson to order. He smiles at Al over the counter and asks for “the usual.”

“I get your point, man,” the man says as they’re watching the boy behind the counter pour out their orders. “I just don’t think his style will work in this day and age.”

“You’ll see,” Coulson replies, taking his coffee. The man is still waiting and neither of them say anything more as he heads out. Coulson has a meeting with new recruits and it won’t do any good to be late. Plus he’s not about to be an insane fan of Steve Rogers chasing people down to defend the man’s honor. They’ll all see what Steve can do soon enough.

“Let me be the first to say welcome to SHIELD,” Coulson says, standing in a meeting room with six hesitant faces staring back at him. Before he can say anything else, the door bangs open and the man from the coffee shop swaggers in. His mouth turns up in a smirk as he takes in Coulson and sits down.

He really should have seen that one coming. Coulson shakes himself mentally and continues his memorized speech about shielding the world and how each of them are a part of something bigger now. Fury’s words, his mouth. He likes the way they feel.

When it’s over, the recruits file out, chattering excitedly, until Coulson and the man from the coffee shop are alone.

“Can I help you?” Coulson asks, resisting the urge to add _Or are you going to keep insulting me._

The man steps around the chairs and stops in front of him. Holds out his hand. “Clint Barton.”

Coulson shakes, heartened by the gun callouses he finds. “Agent Coulson.”

“Let me take you out to dinner.” Barton sidles a little bit closer and leans next to him against the desk.

“Do you often take people out to dinner after you insult their favorite superhero?” Coulson means to sound stern but instead it comes out all wrong and teasing.

“Only when they’re hot.” Barton looks him up and down with his tongue between his teeth.

“I don’t think so. Now I need to get to my office.” Coulson pushes off the desk but Barton’s there holding out a note. Fury’s handwriting, asking Coulson to evaluate Barton’s shooting skills immediately. Apparently he has a reputation as a crack shot. Coulson sighs. “Shooting range it is.”

They’ve only been on the range five minutes and Coulson understands why he’s performing the evaluation instead of the usual junior agent. One hundred percent accuracy. Close range, sniper range, moving targets, gun, bow. Doesn’t matter, Barton never misses a shot.

Coulson calls out targets—”hand, head, knee, foot, femoral artery…”—and stands back along the wall, admiring the relaxed, focused way that Barton chooses his shots. Each one is perfectly done.

“What do you say we make this a little more interesting?” Clint asks, lowering his bow and yawning like he’s bored. The glint in his eye says he’s anything but.

“What do you think this is, a ‘90s romcom?”

Barton ignores the note of scorn. “Five shots, you choose the target. If I win, you’ll go out to dinner with me.”

“And if I win?”

Barton’s smirk and raised eyebrow says how likely he thinks that is. “I’ll admit that I’m all wrong about Captain America.”

Coulson gives in, stepping forward to the range. “Gun or bow?”

“Gun. I don’t think a bow is your area of expertise.” Barton puts his bow aside, trading it for a pair of standard-issue pistols and handing one to Coulson.

The SHIELD handler can’t believe he’s even considering this as he checks the gun’s clip and switches off the safety. He slides open the range controls, bringing up one of the real-life simulations and inputting five targets. “You know what to do,” Coulson says.

The simulation begins. Coulson takes his time and makes each shot count, trying to ignore Barton rushing through next to him. When they cease fire, the ten holographic enemies lie dead on the floor. One shot kills for the lot.

“I concede,” Coulson admits, setting down his gun in defeat. He’s been here too long to not be able to admit when he’s been beaten. Barton’s shots are all perfectly placed and even though Coulson knows that his shots were all effective he knows they’re a tad bit messy.

“Are you kidding?” Barton puts his own gun down and waves at the simulation field. “You didn’t miss a shot either.”

“Yours are perfect.”

Barton scoffs. “You shot a man in the hand _through_ another’s kneecap. That’s inspired.”

“Lucky shot.” Coulson doesn’t even know why he’s arguing anymore. He knows that it wasn’t a lucky shot; he had the opportunity and he took it. In the field, when ammo was limited and you were sometimes outnumbered, you had to be creative.

He can tell from Clint’s snort that the man knows that as well as he does. “Bullshit.”

“I thought you wanted to take me to dinner.”

“I thought you didn’t want to come.”

Coulson can’t hold back a laugh. He grabs their guns to stow away. “Tie?”

“No one wins?”

“We both win.” Coulson steps in front of Barton, holding his gaze. “Apology, now.”

Barton grins back, not fazed in the slightest. “Over dinner.”

“Of course,” Coulson says, exasperated.

“I’ll meet you at the coffeehouse tonight.” Barton spins around him and opens the door. The overhead range lights kick on and the simulation fades. “Don’t be late.” Barton’s gone before Coulson realizes he can’t avoid being late if he doesn’t have a time.

Coulson spends a couple hours in his office, reading the same reports without taking in a word of them, before he gives up and heads down to Al’s. Perks of being a senior agent mean that no one will think twice about him heading out early once in a while when the office is quiet.

Barton is already there, perched in a booth with an empty coffee cup. “Ready?” he asks while Coulson is still trying to decide if he should apologize for being late or ask if Barton’s been sitting here this whole time.

Coulson shakes himself and decides to just forget it. “Let’s go.”

Barton leads him down the street a couple blocks, to a little burger joint that Coulson has always wanted to try. It’s a small place with a historical theme—dressed up like the 1920s. A banner on the back wall proclaims that Steve Rogers once ate in this exact restaurant. Coulson doesn’t comment on it.

He knows that Steve has never eaten here, although it’s probable that he _did_ get beat up in the alley behind it.

“So how did I do?” Barton asks once they’re seated at a little table. It’s in the corner, situated so that they can both see the exit. “Did I pass the Coulson test of approval?”

“I have a rule about office dating: No talking about work outside of HQ,” Coulson replies, taking a sip of his beer.

“I didn’t realize this was a date.” Barton stares at the little packets of salt on the table, shifting uncomfortably in his seat.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t—” Coulson stutters to a stop when he sees Barton laughing. “You’re an asshole.”

“Guilty as charged.” Barton shrugs and downs half his beer in three hard swallows. Coulson tries not to watch the rise and fall of his adam’s apple with each one. “No shop during dates. Got it. So where are you from?”

“Born in Boston, but my family moved to California my freshman year in high school.” Their waiter appears and takes their order. Two burgers, everything on them, and fries. “Fury recruited me straight after graduation so I’ve been moving around ever since then. You know how that goes.”

Barton nods, his eyes grave with understanding. “Boston to California. That’s a big shift.”

“It was. I had to leave behind my school, all my friends, my chess team. They won the state championship without me that year.” Coulson chuckles, remembering how he won his own state championship the year after.

“You were on the chess team?” Barton asks, his eyes laughing and Coulson wonders if he’s just handed the man teasing fodder for the next six months. “I would have taken you for a soccer player.”

“Blew out my knee before tryouts and then found chess. Don’t knock it; I can bring grandmasters to their knees.”

Barton licks his lips, raising an eyebrow. “I’m sure you can.”

“Did you play sports in school?” Coulson asks, ignoring the way the back of his neck has gone hot.

Barton shakes his head. “School was complicated. I had archery.” His hand reaches to his side, like he’s used to having a bow there, always.

“You’ve excelled at it.” Coulson is surprised how easily the conversation flows. It gets a little rough when he asks Barton what brought him to SHIELD, but the man smooths it all over with the ease of long practice. Coulson doesn’t pry. He’s having too good of a time, the beer loosening up his ironclad hold on himself just enough to really relax. There’ll be plenty of time for difficult conversation about past history at SHIELD.

When they step outside and the sun’s still casting a warm glow over the horizon, Coulson finds himself not wanting to go home. It’s been a while since he’s had an evening this nice—been a while since he’s had an evening away from work, if he’s being honest—and he doesn’t want it to end.

Barton seems to be thinking along hte sae lines because he says, “You want to come back to my apartment? I don’t have Steve Rogers, but I do have coffee.”

“Can’t turn down coffee,” Coulson says and hails them both a cab.

Barton’s apartment is tiny; the kitchen and living area are technically the same room. A door in the back leads to a bedroom and presumably a bathroom. There’s barely any furniture in the living room, just a couch and a coffee table that looks like it may have been shot at some point. Nothing that really makes this place look like home.

Barton kicks off his shoes at the door and goes into the kitchen, putting the coffee pot on. Coulson toes off his shoes and follows, leaning back against the counter.

“Should only take a minute,” Barton says, turning around. His eyes widen as he takes in Coulson. He’s undone the buttons on his coat, letting it hang open to reveal the blue button-up underneath. Barton opens his mouth like he’s going to say something but then he crosses the space between them and crushes Coulson back against the counter in a kiss.

It’s rough and a little bit awkward in the way of two people that are still getting to know each other. Barton bites down on Coulson’s lower lip a tad too hard and he jerks back slightly. The archer softens the kiss in apology, swiping his tongue over the offended skin.

It crosses Couson’s mind that he should probably stop this, or perhaps not even started it. They’re coworkers. He could be Barton’s handler.

His heart races in his chest as he shoves his hands underneath Barton’s shirt and feels the flexing muscles below. They’re crossed over with a number of scars, some of them more recent than others, and once again Coulson wonders about the man’s past.

Barton breaks the kiss and leans his forehead against Coulson’s. “Coffee’s done.”

Coulson slides his hands down and hooks his fingers into Barton’s belt loops. “If you’re thinking about coffee, then I don’t think I’m trying hard enough.”

“Bedroom?” Barton grins at him.

“Lead the way.” Coulson allows himself to be tugged along by the hand before he’s pushed unceremoniously on the bed. He leans up on his elbows, watching Barton strip his own clothes off and toss them aside. Coulson reaches for his belt but Barton crawls onto the bed and pins his hands.

“Allow me,” Barton growls into his ear while he pushes Coulson’s coat and shirt off. The agent leans up into a kiss, hard and demanding, while Barton’s hands slide down the line of his back. They’re warm and broad and he shivers as they reach his waistband.

Coulson’s belt is gone before he even has a chance to notice, followed quickly by his pants. He notices that a little more obviously, since he has to buck his hips up to help.

“What do you want to do with me now that you have me in bed, Agent Coulson?” Barton asks, crawling farther up the bed to reach into the nightstand. He pulls out a bottle of lube and a few condoms.

Scenarios race through Coulson’s head, all of them appealing. Barton stretched out between his legs, sucking him off. Barton on his hands and knees, being fucked into from behind. Coulson on his back, Barton inside of him.

“We’ve got all night,” Barton says and Coulson realizes he’s been staring at the ceiling in silence. “And more…if you want. Unless of course you want to run off to the ice prince.”

Coulson’s eyes darken and he crawls up the bed, straddling Barton and pushing him down against the pillows. “I’m going to fuck you.”

“Then less talking and more fucking.” Barton hands over the bottle of lube and Coulson squeezes a generous amount on his fingers. The archer lets out a soft sigh as he slides in the first finger. Coulson takes his time, only working in a second when Barton practically barks “More. Now.”

Barton squirms underneath his fingers, arching up off the bed when Coulson crooks his fingers just right. “I’m ready. I’m ready. Just fuck me.”

“You sure?” Coulson slicks up his fingers again and slides in three. Barton lets out a sound that can only be described as a whimper.

“Fuck. Me.” The words slide out through gritted teeth and Coulson rips open the condom wrapper and rolls it on. He leans over Barton, pausing until the man beneath him opens his mouth, and then thrusts in.

“ _Coulson_ _…_ ” Barton hisses and the agent sets a furious pace, balancing himself on his knees. Nails scratch down the length of his back. Coulson leans down, scraping his teeth over Barton’s exposed throat. The archer lets out a whine and arches up with every trust.

Coulson knows that he’s not going to last long. Not with Barton beneath him, powerful muscles glistening with sweat. He feels Barton’s hand reaching between them, followed a few seconds later by a sticky wetness splattering across his own stomach.

Barton clenches around him and Coulson gasps. He thrusts once more and freezes, coming so hard his muscles stop functioning and he falls onto the man underneath him.

Barton chuckles, his hands going soft against Coulson’s back. He strokes up and down, calmly, his breath gradually slowing against the side of the agent’s face.

Once Coulson’s caught his breath a bit, Barton pokes him in the side. He takes the hint and rolls off him onto the bed.

“Jesus,” Coulson whispers, the word slipping out without his notice. The reality of the situation rushes back into his mind, wiping out the pleasantness of the afterglow. Here he is sleeping with a new agent, probably his new agent. SHIELD is, by nature, more lax on the policy of office dating but Coulson knows better than anyone the regulations against handlers sleeping with their charges.

It takes Coulson a few moments to realize that Barton is talking. “If you’re worried that I’m not going to respect you as my senior officer, I know how to be professional. Although I can’t promise that I won’t leave notes of a certain nature around your office…”

Coulson smacks himself in the forehead and then takes a deep breath. Lets it out slowly. “I do too,” he says, even though it’s probably the worst idea. “Know how to be professional, I mean.”

“I don’t want this to be a one night thing either.” Barton rolls over onto his side, propping his head up on his elbow.

Coulson reaches out and rests a hand on Barton’s side. His muscles flex slightly at the touch. “I don’t do one night things.”

“I’m glad.” Barton’s eyes glint with mischief and he pushes himself up, straddling Coulson with one easy movement. Barton stares into his eyes for a moment before leaning down into a kiss. Neither of them will be ready for a second round for a while, but Coulson almost prefers this. The slow slide of their lips together, not in any hurry now that their earlier desperation has been satisfied.

“You know,” Barton says, pulling away some time later, “I respect Steve. I stand by what I said before, but I think he has the chance to do great things in this century too. It was just fun seeing you get even more worked up.”

Coulson gapes at him for a moment and then shakes his head. “You’re ridiculous.” He reaches up and captures Barton’s lips, biting down hard. Barton rises to the challenge and nips back.


End file.
